TBW - 14

14. Every day felt like Friday.

Back home, Cheng Simin opened a bag of dental chews for Beibei. The dog lay on the floor gnawing at the dried duck meat on a cow bone while Cheng Simin changed into her pajamas, sat cross-legged on the new sofa, and started keeping accounts on the coffee table.

The major furniture and broadband were settled, but she still needed many daily necessities. A rough calculation showed there were still plenty of expenses ahead.

Even though all the windows were open, the temperature inside the house remained high. After writing down a page of shopping lists, sweat had already formed on Cheng Simin’s temples. She pulled out the street food she bought in the afternoon, picked up a piece of fried chicken strip with her fingers, and popped it into her mouth. Recalling the cold cola she drank at Shi Ying’s place, she decisively crossed out the LCD TV on her list and rewrote it as a refrigerator and a fan.

At this stage, chilled drinks were more important than a TV—it was a matter of survival.

On the tablet to her right, Empresses in the Palace was playing. Using the calculator on her phone, she added and subtracted numbers on the list. Soon, an hour passed. Circling the final figure, Cheng Simin edited her experiences and observations from successfully moving into the public rental apartment that day and posted them on her social media account before slumping onto the sofa.

Picking up her phone again, a red dot indicating a pending addition lit up in her WeChat contacts.

“What a waste of words,” she thought. “He said it wasn’t convenient, but in the end, he still wants to add me. Why bother?” Shi Ying had always been the epitome of good looks and bad temper. Back in elementary school, Cheng Simin had gone through great lengths to befriend this handsome desk mate.

Thinking about the humiliations of her childhood, Cheng Simin still felt indignant on her own behalf.

Pouting, Cheng Simin accepted the friend request from “sparrow.” Shi Ying’s profile picture was blurry. Upon enlarging it, she could vaguely see two small sparrows perched on an ancient tree. Opening his Moments, she saw only a straight line and “visible for three days.”

“What a waste of such a handsome face,” she thought. “If I could swap bodies with him, I’d strut around like a peacock, posting ten selfies a day to show off my stunning beauty to the world.”

Disappointed, Cheng Simin exited WeChat and began searching for the courier pickup point and nearby morning market that Zhou Yan had told her about.

Recalling the shopping cart Granny Qi dragged earlier that morning, Cheng Simin opened the map’s panoramic view to simulate walking along the streets. Taking the early bus to compete with commuters for space was too crowded, so she wanted to check if there were any shared electric scooters parked along the way.

In the long run, constantly using shared scooters wasn’t cost-effective. Maybe she should just buy an electric scooter. The city was small, and her little e-bike could take her anywhere.

Stopping and starting on the live map, passing by several small department stores where she used to cool off, Cheng Simin discovered a large two-yuan store in a small alley opposite the morning market. She immediately added it to her list of places to explore, deciding to visit after buying groceries the next morning.

Of course, this was just a fleeting thought. Most likely, she would sleep in naturally. She didn’t mind wasting time—she could afford to, and she felt no guilt about it.

From the age of six, studying and then working after graduation, the past twenty years of Cheng Simin’s life had been marked by Fridays as the happiest days and Sundays as the hardest. Vacations were supposed to be a good thing, yet she always dreaded their inevitable end.

Now, after quitting her job, every day felt like Friday. Even better, now she could legitimately skip work whenever she wanted. If she couldn’t get up tomorrow, she’d go the day after. If she overslept again, she’d go the day after that.

This was truly a dream life she never imagined as a child.

Clicking the screen again to adjust the direction, she pulled the view out of the alley when suddenly, Cheng Simin sprang up from the sofa like a leaping carp.

Not far away in the living room, Beibei had long finished his dental chew and was lying on the coolest tiles in the house, sleeping soundly. Startled by her sudden movement, he quickly ran over before even fully opening his eyes, resting his head on the sofa to check her movements.

Cheng Simin patted Beibei’s head reassuringly, then excitedly took a screenshot of the scene and sent it to Shi Ying.

The perspective of the image faced the sidewalk next to the entrance of the two-yuan store, where a poplar tree stood tall.

Poplars were salt-alkali resistant, unafraid of high temperatures or harsh cold, making them the most common type of landscaping tree in northwest China.

Banshan was no exception. Whether on main streets or in narrow alleys, poplar trees appeared every ten steps. The tree in Cheng Simin’s screenshot was one of them—tall and straight, appearing only slightly thicker than its neighbors at first glance.

But across the wall, Shi Ying, lying in bed, held his phone and abruptly sat up upon seeing the image.

In the picture, clearly visible on the trunk about two meters above the ground, was a line of crudely carved words.

The uneven letters were written by eight-year-old Cheng Simin and wrapped halfway around the massive tree: “Cheng Simin is Shi Ying’s best friend.”

For a few seconds, Shi Ying’s breath caught. He closed his eyes and collapsed back onto the mattress.

The living room lights had long been turned off after Cheng Simin left. Lying in complete darkness, he let the memories, long buried, slowly unfold in the tranquil night.

The inscription wasn’t wrong. Before turning sixteen, Cheng Simin had been Shi Ying’s best friend in their hometown.

This domineering, unilateral friendship had entirely stemmed from Cheng Simin’s relentless pursuit of Shi Ying.

Though literary creators tirelessly depicted unaware beauty, humans were inherently arrogant creatures and intelligent beings. Faced with absolute beauty, observers wouldn’t delude themselves, and those possessing such beauty certainly wouldn’t underestimate their own appeal.

Shi Ying had been a delicate and charming child, beloved by all. Adults would smile at the sight of him, and children would gather around him chattering away. From an early age, he always stood out among his peers—something he knew even before he learned the multiplication table.

Back then, when he and Cheng Simin were classmates in elementary school, many children in the class wanted to be friends with Shi Ying. Some excelled academically and could help him with homework, others had plenty of toys to share, and some were physically strong enough to run errands for him at the school store. But Cheng Simin was the loudest and seemingly least useful of them all.

She laughed often, her voice carrying far, and Shi Ying found her especially noisy compared to the others. From the moment they started school, he never warmed up to her.

In the first semester of second grade, they became desk mates, and Cheng Simin’s overly familiar behavior intensified, pushing Shi Ying’s dislike for her to new heights.

She ignored the “boundary line” he drew on their shared desk, signed her name on his brand-new textbooks without permission, and even showed up uninvited to his birthday party at a fast-food restaurant. She played with his new eraser and toyed with his pencil case shaped like a race car. Eventually, she even learned his nickname and deliberately called him by it, rolling the syllables on her tongue mockingly.

Cheng Simin was like a mischievous monkey, making Shi Ying feel genuine sympathy for the demons and monsters Sun Wukong beat senseless in Journey to the West.

This “torment” by Cheng Simin continued until the end of second grade.

Shi Ying remembered it vividly. That winter had been unusually cold and long, and it wasn’t until May that the pear trees at school finally bloomed.

On a Thursday afternoon during the second music class, the students were learning to play the recorder under their teacher’s guidance. It was a bright, sunny early summer day when suddenly, thick “snow” began falling outside the first-floor windows.

“Wow! It’s snowing!” one student exclaimed. Soon, the elementary school kids were crowding around the windows, standing on tiptoes to look outside.

Cheng Simin pushed her way to the front. At first glance, she saw a blanket of white. Recognizing it as the pear blossoms that had been hanging on the trees just days ago, she immediately turned to shout at Shi Ying, who was standing at the back: “It’s pear blossoms!”

As the wind blew, the fully bloomed flowers fell from the branches. The white petals detached from their withered centers, fluttering through the air like summer snow.

The music teacher set down the textbook and joined the children by the window, gazing up at the scene. Inspired by their excitement, she returned to the electronic keyboard, retrieved an old film camera from her bag, and cheerfully announced to the class: “Let’s go outside and take some pictures!”

She held up the camera. “I don’t have much film left. There are thirty-two students in our class, so we’ll take small group photos first, then a big group photo. Those who want to be in the small groups should quickly organize themselves. We can’t waste time!”

At the teacher’s command, the students cheered and rushed out of the classroom. Cheng Simin followed the female teacher and timidly asked how many shots were left on the roll. After getting the exact number, she hurriedly ran out of the building to search for Shi Ying.

Having grown up helping her parents with their business, Cheng Simin had developed a knack for numbers. She calculated that with twenty shots left on the roll—and accounting for the large group photo—each pair of students could take one small group photo. Since Shi Ying was her desk mate and closest companion, she decided her small group photo must include him.

Under the lush branches of the pear tree, Shi Ying was already surrounded by over a dozen classmates, each vying to have him in their photos.

Eight-year-old Cheng Simin grew increasingly anxious. Despite calling out both his full name and nickname repeatedly across the crowd, Shi Ying refused to spare her a glance.

One photo, two photos, three photos—Shi Ying was treated like the class mascot, constantly positioned at the center of the frame. His photogenic face didn’t disappoint; every time the shutter clicked, he delivered a perfectly composed and beautiful expression, not even blinking awkwardly. With him in the shot, there were no wasted frames.

Finally, when Shi Ying stepped out of the frame and other students took his place, Cheng Simin immediately grabbed the hem of his uniform, forcing a smile as she pleaded: “Take a picture with me!”

Without looking up, Shi Ying frowned at her hand gripping his uniform. “No.”